


Ironwood

by The_Queen_In_The_North



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, Desk Sex, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:00:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28623708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Queen_In_The_North/pseuds/The_Queen_In_The_North
Summary: After being gifted a hideous new desk by her half-brother in celebration of her eighteenth name day, Sansa Stark makes the most of her gift with the captain of Winterfell's household guard, Sandor Clegane.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 47
Kudos: 224





	Ironwood

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, I don't know what this is. It's porn, but I also added some elements to this fic that I can extend on should I decide to go that route (you'll notice some _Northbound_ feels, if you've read that work of mine).
> 
> I guess this is just me trying to handle the ongoing fuckery here in the United States.
> 
> Anyway, whether I continue this or not, I hope you enjoy it!

Winter had come and gone, and Sansa’s name day had just begun; it was her eighteenth, the very first day of spring.

And during that first waking hour of her eighteenth name day on the very first day of spring, Sansa stood inside the solar with Winterfell’s captain of the guards and observed her gift.

Sansa regarded it for a moment, then tilted her head against the captain’s muscled arm. “It’s revolting.”

Sandor Clegane gave a quick laugh. “It’s a desk, little bird….I think.”

She sighed and scrutinized the monstrosity some more. “A rather large one.” 

The slab of ironwood in front of her made the solar look twice as small. Truly, it was a slab. Or rather, four slabs nailed together. The desk did not even have legs, but sat flush with the floor, making it impossible to see anything underneath. And the engraving in the dark wood panel was so plain, a pattern of five-pointed weirwood leaves swirling in the wind, that Sansa would have sooner been given a simple four-legged writing desk as opposed to this... _thing_.

No, this was not a desk at all, nor could one call it a table. By definition, it was a wooden block. 

A block of ironwood. 

Sansa made a face. “And it’s ugly.”

Sandor brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “I’ve never known you to be repulsed by large, ugly things.”

She playfully smacked his arm. “You’re awful.”

“So you’ve told me,” he smirked. “Now go on, sit behind your new desk.”

There were a thousand things Sansa would have rather done, but she never was able to ignore her lover’s encouragement. Begrudgingly, Sansa removed her hand from his and walked around the obstacle.

Once she stood behind the desk, just next to the large ironwood chair that was made to match her large ironwood desk, she discovered that there were five drawers on either side, each decorated with round bronze handles. Those were rather nice, she supposed. And in the middle where the chair was pushed in was an opening five times larger than necessary for her to place her feet. It was so dark underneath there, it almost looked like a crypt. 

She pulled out the chair, grunting when she discovered it was far heavier than she anticipated, and sat down in the dark wooden seat. _A desk fit for a queen,_ her half-brother had told her as it was being built (this had been _after_ she told _every single person_ she knew not to gift her anything for her name day). Yet there it was, Jon's gift to her. She should be grateful, she knew, but she could not help but feel bemused; Sansa had never heard of a queen receiving a _desk_ for her name day. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense, though. Jon only ever thought about duty and responsibility. And what does a desk represent if not a place to work long and hard?

 _Jon tried,_ she thought. _Which is more than I can say for Arya._

Her little sister had left with her blacksmith friend, Gendry, and a group of others at first light to hunt in the Wolfswood before the feast later that evening. Sansa did not want nor expect gifts, but she _did_ wish that her sister would have wished her a happy name day prior to leaving.

 _Unless she has a surprise for me, too,_ thought Sansa, _and is waiting to give it to me this evening._

The thought was disconcerting.

Sansa folded her hands atop the desk, pulled her shoulders back, and straightened her spine, just like Septa Mordane had taught her when she was a girl. 

Taking on a graceful, yet serious demeanor, Sansa looked at her captain of the guards and said, “How do I look?”

Sandor ambled towards her with his usual swagger and placed both hands on the smooth, finished surface. When he leaned forward, the scarred side of his mouth twitched. “You look like a queen who’s ready to be fucked.”

“Sandor!” 

“What? It’s nearly noon and I haven’t given you your name day gift.”

“ _That’s_ my name day gift from you?”

He snorted a laugh. “Don’t sound too bloody disappointed. My cock's better than a desk.”

“That’s not how I meant it,” she sighed. “You know it’s too risky for us to be intimate with one another when the castle is awake.”

Sandor gave a half shrug. “We can bar the door.”

“Barring the door would not do us any good. If someone comes by and knows you’re in here while it’s barred, Jon will put your head on block.” She looked down at the hard surface. “Or on _this_.”

“I’m shaking in my boots, little bird,” he said wryly. Sandor walked around the big chunk of ironwood and stood at the end to her left. The desk came up to his groin. He gave one thrust of his hips and grinned at her. “Well, would you look at that: it’s the perfect height. I ought to thank the bastard.”

“Oh gods, Sandor,” she giggled into her palms. “You’re-”

“-awful.” Her paramour picked her up from the chair and sat her on the edge of the surface. “Now let your large, ugly captain of the guards fuck you on top of this large, ugly desk.”

A giggle caught in her throat when he devoured her lips. Sansa scarcely ever was able to kiss him in the mornings, but when she did, she loved the taste. His mouth was always a bit salty after breaking his fast, whereas hers was always a tad minty after drinking a cup of moon tea. The contrasting flavors mingled well together, as did they. Such was their forbidden intrigue - two unique halves that came together to make a better whole.

If only everyone would see it that way.

Seven turns of the moon it had been since he had come to Winterfell. She had given herself to him on the third day, the night before the battle against the Others. He was the first and only man she had ever laid with. And ever since, not a day went by without the two becoming intimate. It was wrong what they were doing, so wrong, so sneaky, yet Sansa could never get enough.

And she never would.

He was quick and sure in his movements, his large hands undressing her with the same finesse they wielded a sword. Sansa's boots came off first, followed by her stockings and small clothes. As he threw it all behind the desk, Sansa gathered her skirts and spread her legs open, giving his ravenous stare a savory sight.

Sometimes he would curse when he saw her, other times he would stand back and gaze upon her nudity in silence. But in that instant, he cupped her sex with one hand and looked her dead in the eye, then said, “You’re _mine_.”

The eye contact, the two words, the possessive touch, it was too much for her to process. Her heart was fluttering in her throat. When no intelligible response came to her, Sansa did the only thing she could do in that moment: toss her head back and moan. Her crown fell off, a circlet of bronze and iron like those once worn by the Kings of Winter, and tumbled down to join what Sandor Clegane had stripped off her.

Eagerly, he knelt down. Sandor always liked to tease her first and slowly ran his tongue up and down the inside of her thighs before grazing over her slit. She jolted at the touch, her stiff nipples pressing against the lacing of her bodice. He flicked his tongue again and again, her small whimpers joined by his low growls; Sansa loved when he made noise. She could think of few things better than listening to the sound of the man she loved consume her like she was his favorite dish.

A burst of laughter came from the practice yard, loud enough to startle her despite the shutters being closed. Sansa threaded her fingers through his hair and gently pulled up. 

He did not budge an inch. “We need to hurry,” she whined, as his tongue darted in and out of her. _“_ I want you inside me _. Please_ , Sandor.”

He swirled his tongue over her little pink bud that was now swollen and impossibly sensitive. She pulled on his hair some more, but to no avail. Sandor was fixed between her legs, lapping his tongue over her entrance and then moving down to do the same to the other. She gasped and tried to squeeze her thighs together, but it was no good. Sansa’s legs were pinned to that ironwood desk by hands that were just as rigid. 

He feasted some more, then inhaled deeply through his nose and spit on her sex. One hand released its grip on her thigh and mixed his fluids with her own, producing the slimiest, wettest sounds.

 _So beautiful_.

Sansa bucked her hips and grabbed two handfuls of his hair, already breathless. If she did not manage her breathing, she was sure to faint. _Again_. It certainly would not be the first time.

"Don't make me beg on my name day," she whimpered. " _Please_."

Only then did he rise from the ground. The lower half of his face glistened in the little light coming from the brazier. Spring it might be, but winter's kiss would linger for several moon turns.

A smirk played on his lips as he observed her aroused state. “You should be fucked good and proper on your name day.”

“Then shut your mouth and do it,” she begged in desperation, not intending for it to sound so harsh.

But that harshness only made his smirk become a grin, one that bore a hint of malice. He grabbed the back of her head with one hand while the other worked on taking out his cock, demanding that her eyes meet his.

“Tell me to shut my mouth again, little bird,” he rasped. “Go on.”

Once there was a time when she had been afraid of him, several years ago. Not anymore. Now, Sansa embraced his glowering face and harsh voice. When he spoke to her like that, when he gave her that cruel look, she utterly relished in it.

Sansa narrowed her eyes and doubled down. “Shut. Your. Mouth.”

If her punishments always involved being impaled by Sandor Clegane’s cock, she would go down as one of the worst behaved rulers the North has ever seen.

Before Sansa knew what was happening, she was lying on her back with her knees bent and spread apart as far as they could go. Sandor stood at the edge of the desk with an unrelenting grip on either side of her waist, stretching her wide open as he pounded into her with no remorse. 

It was everything she ever wanted.

The ironwood desk was large and ugly, but it felt as sweet as sin to be ravished on top of it.

As Sandor tightened his hold and pulled her down to meet every merciless thrust, Sansa fussed with the bodice of her gown until her breasts were free to bounce and jiggle.

She had never felt so full. She had never felt so _free_.

At once, Sandor bent down, taking not only her nipple into his mouth, but half of her breast. She arched her back and clung onto his shoulders, fighting the urge to cry out at the top of her lungs. The enthusiasm, the hunger, the desperate manner in which he sucked, all matched the intensity of his hips. It was cruel what he was doing to her, wicked, perhaps even immoral, or so one might think should they witness their coupling. Sansa should think so, too, but she did not. She could not. How would she when he was the only thing she ever truly wanted?

No, she would love him and she would have him, shamelessly.

“Harder,” she whimpered, pinching her other nipple between two fingers. He never responded with lucid words, not when he took her like some great beast. He was all grunts and groans and half curses. That was her paramour. That was the man she loved. “Oh gods, yes, Sandor. Just like that. Yes, yes, yes.”

He abruptly slowed his rhythm and lifted his mouth off her breast to bury it in the curve of her neck. That was what he always did in an effort not to finish too soon. He would not need to restrain himself for long, though, for she was mere seconds away from achieving that sweetest, highest pleasure. 

As his cock slid in and out of her, producing a melody of soft, wet sounds that complemented their moans, Sansa heard a familiar voice coming from outside the door.

“...you find Tormund, ensure he is not drinking us out of beer before the feast,” said her half-brother, as clear as day.

In sheer panic, Sansa slapped Sandor across the face. 

“Get off!” she whispered harshly. “You need to hide!”

“Seven buggering hells,” Sandor cursed under his breath. When he pulled out of her, his face was taut with fury. “Gods, I hate this sulking bloody bastard.”

“Hide! Hide! Hide!” she urged him again in between erratic breaths. Sansa could see it now, Jon walking in to find Sandor tucking his manhood inside his breeches and ripping out Longclaw in his next breath. The thought sent the coldest chill down her spine.

Sansa sat up, laced up her bodice, then hopped down from the desk. 

As soon as her bare feet landed on the floor, three gentle knocks came at the solar's oak-and-iron door. “Sansa, may I come in?”

She and Sandor exchanged a look; he appeared far more irritated than he did alarmed. Before she could object, he crouched down and hid underneath the desk. It was absurd, but considering the privy was just beside the door, it was the quickest, safest option. Jon would not be able to see him, so long as he did not come behind the desk.

_I cannot let him._

Sansa kicked her boots and small clothes into the miniature cave with him, then picked up her crown and placed it on her head.

“Yes, come in,” she squeaked out, quickly enthroning herself behind the ironwood. Once she did, Sandor pulled the chair forward until her lower body was fully underneath the desk.

Jon Snow smiled when he entered, though his smiles rarely reached his eyes. Her bastard brother always appeared sullen, troubled by something or the other. And this morning was no different. If anything, it was worse.

“Happy name day, Sansa. A desk fit for a queen,” Jon told her, yet again. “How do you like it?”

To her left, something glistening caught her eye. She took a quick glance and discovered a small puddle at the edge of the surface, one made of her juices and Sandor’s spit. She had no cup, nor water to blame it on should Jon notice.

Sansa forced a smile and said a silent prayer. “It’s lovely.”

He closed the door behind him, squinting. “Are you unwell, Sansa? You look flushed.”

When Sandor started to massage her foot underneath the desk, she swung her other leg and kicked him. “I believe I might have a fever. Would you mind bringing the maester here?” 

“Of course. But first, we have two matters that must needs be discussed. It will not take long.” Jon paused and took a sniff. “Ironwood has an earthy smell, does it not?”

_Oh gods._

Sandor snorted underneath the table, so Sansa promptly kicked him again.

“Two matters?” she asked, in order to mask his pained groan. “Which matters might those be?”

Jon opened up the shutters, allowing the morning sun and chilly spring air into the solar. “Yes, two matters,” he said, as he sat in a smaller ironwood chair opposite of her (the one furthest away from the puddle of juices). She would have felt relieved, had Sandor not begun to run his hands up and down her legs. Sansa dared not kick him, though, not when Jon was so close. “The first of which is rather...concerning.”

“Regarding?”

“Sandor Clegane,” he answered, his face as still as stone.

“Oh?” she said, feigning innocence. Underneath the desk, Sandor Clegane held her leg with an iron grip and slowly kissed her foot. “What about him?”

“This will not help with the sickness, I’m afraid, but I believe he-”

Before he could finish voicing his concern, Sansa giggled wildly at the sensation of Sandor licking her toes.

“Did I say something amusing?” Jon asked, unsmiling.

The sight of her brother’s long, humorless face only made her laugh harder.

 _It will not be amusing when he puts Sandor's head on a block,_ she reminded herself.

Sansa took a moment to collect herself and softly cleared her throat. “No, forgive me. This fever has me out of sorts. Please, go on.”

Not only did Jon go on, but Sandor did, too, and slid his hands up her skirts.

“As I was saying. I have reason to believe Sandor Clegane has developed an...affection for you.”

Sandor reached the junction between her thighs and combed his fingers through her auburn curls, the small patch of hair damp with spit, arousal, and sweat.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning. “That is quite the assumption. May I ask what he has done to concern you?”

Jon had never looked more uncomfortable. It was as if he was playing the role of her father as opposed to that of her older half-brother. “Well, for starters, Clegane stands guard outside your door each night,” he explained, as Sandor spread open her thighs and ran one finger up and down her slit. “He follows you just about everywhere you go, though I am pleased to see that he is not here this morning.” Sansa stifled her moan with a cough upon Sandor sliding one thick finger inside her. “And,” Jon went on, “the way he looks at you, it’s unsettling.”

“He’s my...captain of the guards,” Sansa breathed, as Sandor moved his finger in and out of her sex. If she did not keep talking, Jon was sure to hear the soft, wet sounds. “He’s supposed to be near me."

Jon shook his head. “There’s an entire castle he can guard. I understand that you trust him for the loyalty he has shown, but his behavior is becoming inappropriate.”

Sandor pulled out his fingers, then replaced them with his tongue. 

“I’ll speak with him,” she squeaked, tapping her hands atop the ironwood slab to dampen the sounds down below.

“As will I,” her brother said, his brows knitting with obvious concern.

When the tip of Sandor’s tongue grazed over her aching nub, Sansa placed her elbows on the desk and hid her face with her palms. “Oh gods.”

“Are you feeling worse, Sansa?”

“Is that all you wanted to speak with me about?”

“No, I said two matters.” She lowered her hands away from her face to find Jon flexing his sword hand. “I trust you remember there was a decision you needed to reach.”

 _My four suitors,_ she suddenly remembered, then emitted a long sigh. It felt nice to sigh, especially when Sandor’s tongue was lapping over her folds. “I...need more time.”

Jon frowned, looking every inch like their father. “You cannot keep asking for more time, Sansa. Lords Glover, Tallhart, Slate, and Umber are all awaiting a response. It’s been half a year. The North must have an heir.”

Sandor removed his tongue from her sex and nipped the inside of her thigh, making his displeasure known. 

_Four suitors, and the only man I wish to wed is the one underneath my skirts._

“I will...think about it,” she lied.

Jon considered that for a moment. “Who are you seriously considering?”

Sandor's swirling tongue stopped. Not only was Jon awaiting her response, but he was, too.

Her face grew hot. “None of them. I’d sooner die a maid.”

Had they been alone, Sandor would have roared with laughter.

Jon did no such thing; he only brooded. “You are bound by duty, Sansa,” he reminded her for the hundredth time. “A woman grown and a queen."

“A queen, precisely.” Sansa tilted her hips forward once Sandor resumed his licking. “Meaning my...siblings do not have the power to choose a husband for me.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, though she knew it was not due to her words but the awkward way she was shifting in her seat. “If father were alive, he’d have chosen for you. As I recall, he did - Joffrey.”

Sandor nipped her again. “Were I not feeling so ill, I would slap you for bringing up that monster on my name day.”

Her bastard brother gave a repentant nod. “Forgive me, Sansa. That was low of me. Had father known who Joffrey was, he would never have betrothed you to him.” He emitted a drawn out sigh. More jovial laughter came from the yard, bringing her brother out of his daze. “Nevertheless, you must decide. You have several choices, all of whom are good men.”

“I won’t,” she said, her voice strained as Sandor softly sucked on her tender bud. “I _can’t_.”

“Lord Umber, then,” Jon Snow said, resolutely. “You’ll need a husband who is large enough to defend your honor should Clegane decide to act upon his newfound affection for you. I cannot remain in Winterfell forever. I must needs return to Daenerys.”

She wanted nothing more than to shove Jon out of the solar, but all she could do was close her eyes upon the sensation of Sandor’s nose sliding between her folds. “I’m…oh gods...”

“Sansa?” She opened her eyes to find her brother more than slightly horrified. “What is it?”

“Bring the maester,” she answered in a whimper. “But...before you go...just know I forbid you from...choosing...my husband.”

Jon arose from his seat. “I cannot force you to wed, but you cannot forbid me from sending a raven. Four of them.”

She could not find it within her to care anymore. She was so close. So, _so_ close. Sansa bit her tongue again and swallowed her own blood. “Oh gods, I’m about to…”

“Be sick?” Jon asked, his eyes saucers.

“Yes,” she practically cried out, then buried her face in her palms. “Oh gods, it’s coming.”

“I’ll return at once,” she heard Jon say, followed by footsteps receding and then the door slamming shut.

She tore off her crown and tossed her head back, one lick away from riding out her peak on Sandor Clegane’s face, but then he just...stopped.

He shoved the chair back and emerged from underneath the desk, face glistening once again.

While sitting on his knees, Sandor squeezed the arms of her chair until his knuckles turned white. “Do I need to kill an Umber, little bird?”

She was at a loss for words. Sandor didn’t kill men anymore, not unless it was warranted. But the pain present in those two grey eyes convinced Sansa it was not a jape. 

When she did not respond, he stood up and strode towards the exit.

Sansa panicked and bolted up from the chair. “Don’t leave me!”

His hand did not grab the handle like she feared, but instead reached out and turned the latch. That would mean his head if Jon returned and found the door locked; Sandor knew that. And yet, he did it anyway.

She could not decide whether she hated him for that or loved him all the more.

Sandor turned on his heel. “Is that what the little bird thinks of me?” He took slow, heavy steps in her direction, while his hands found their way to the front of his breeches. “Do you think I’d ever leave you?”

She knew the answer to that. Sansa knew his love for her was infinite, as was her love for him. He would tell her at night when they would sneak off to the godswood. He would tell her on the rare occasions they found themselves alone in the corridors of the castle. Sometimes he would even mouth it across the Great Hall, even if Jon was right beside her. Not a single day went by without hearing those words, the simple sequence sweeter than all the heavens combined. 

Her body eased at once. “No,” she finally replied.

“That’s right, girl. _Never_.” Sandor pulled out his erect cock and stroked it with his right hand, approaching her all the while. The size of him always intimidated her, no matter how many times she had seen it, sucked it, or let it inside her. Her sex muscles squeezed, pining for his return. “Four suitors or forty, I’m not leaving you. Glovers or Umbers, they can’t stop me. And if one tries to wed you…” Sandor paused and took one last step to stand just behind her.

What followed was a blur.

He bent her over the desk, tossed up her skirts to gain the access he needed, and traced every inch of her folds with the head of his cock. Once he was lined up to enter her from behind, Sandor bent down and placed his mouth beside her ear to finish his thought.

“I’ll kill them.”

Not another word passed between them, only sharp inhales and brazen moans as he slid back inside. Despite the desk being sturdy, it threatened to inch forward with every thrust coming behind her, his rhythm nothing short of relentless. Sansa tried to grab onto something, but her hands only found polished wood, all four edges just barely out of her reach.

So, she folded her arms in front of her and took it, stifling her cries as best as she could, and then arched her back when she wanted it harder, deeper, rougher. 

She knew that Sandor loved that. He loved watching her body open up when she yearned for him, more of him, _all_ of him. And how could she not? She had realized in those years spent apart that Sandor Clegane was all that she ever wanted. He was all that she would ever need going forward.

_Four suitors be damned._

It was risky, but oh _,_ the _thrill_ . She had come to love the taste of recklessness, so long as it was with him. A queen she was, but that did not stop her from letting herself be taken, or more accurately, _fucked_ good and proper from behind. Even as she submitted herself to him, a man whose energy alone could make her wet between the legs, there was power in knowing what she did to him, how it was as natural as breathing for her to pleasure him, to make him spill inside her, to be what caused the growls and curses that rumbled in his throat.

Sometimes, she could not tell who was dominating who. Sometimes, it seemed to be both of them all at once.

Receiving one name day gift while bent over another, Sansa took the smallest, quickest, most fleeting of glances over her shoulder and let the sight of dark hair and scars and a strong build induce her climax. Her nails dug into the unyielding ironwood - one even broke. She bit into her arm to muffle her cries, remembering far too late that the shutters had been open the entire time. Sandor's massive hands clamped around her waist, eliciting yet another sharp cry of pain, just before joining her.

Yes, it was thrilling, but it was also beautiful. The sensation of him spilling inside her had become one of her greatest guilty pleasures, much like listening to the sounds he made as he came. More oft than not, the sound of him spending himself inside her sex rose goosebumps on her skin. Sometimes he sounded angry, other times he sounded pained. But just then, he sounded like he was in utter agony.

That was her absolute favorite.

"Yes," she thought out loud, poking out her bottom and running her hands down the smooth wooden surface, "give it all to me, Sandor." When she squeezed her walls around him again and again, he said, in his most strained voice, "Naughty by fucking nature."

Sansa smiled.

As she looked out the window at the bright spring day, Sansa wondered what Jon would think should she suggest a fifth suitor.

Sandor pulled out of her with a low, throaty growl, and then a stream of warm fluids ran down her leg. He collapsed onto the floor, pulling her down with him, and cradled her in his lap with all the gentleness in the world - a stark contrast to his earlier beating. His chest was heaving, his face was sweating, and his mouth hung open as he caught his breath. Jon could return at any moment, yet Sandor leaned back against the ironwood desk, his breaths so quick and shallow that Sansa feared they might be his last.

After some seconds passed, he reached inside the pocket of his tunic and managed to say, “Open your hand.”

Sansa did, despite her limbs feeling a bit tingly and numb. “What is it?”

“Your real name day gift,” Sandor breathed, then set something small and dainty into her palm.

She held it up between her thumb and index finger, a fine chain of silver that softly swayed back and forth. The necklace glittered in the sunlight, ornamented with a pendant in the shape of a little bird, the color of the gemstone the deepest shade of blue - a sapphire.

It was the most stunning piece of jewelry she had ever seen.

 _How?_ she wanted to ask, but the question would not pass her lips. All Sansa could do in that perfect moment was clutch the gift to her breast and look up at him. “Oh Sandor, I love it.”

He seized her chin with a grip as firm as ironwood, then kissed her lips as softly as the first sunbeams of spring. “And I love you," he whispered. "Happy name day, my little bird.”

**Author's Note:**

> **Connect with me!**   
>  [Follow me on Tumblr](https://thequeen--in--thenorth.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Follow me on Twitter](https://twitter.com/nikki_desil)


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